


Resolve

by Two_DollarBILL



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel
Genre: 1940ish, Fluff, Hurt/comfort sort of (?), I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Oneshot, Period-Typical Homophobia (implied), Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, kind of angst but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 15:33:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18702436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Two_DollarBILL/pseuds/Two_DollarBILL
Summary: Bucky and Steve disagree about getting an apartment together





	Resolve

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first stucky fic so don’t get mad if I didn’t characterize them well lol 
> 
> I think I might turn this concept into a longer fic later? Maybe? But for now this is just a oneshot
> 
> Hope u like ^^

It was the third time this month. Bucky had been walking Steve home after work, as was their usual arrangement. They walked past a barbershop when the subject swayed a bit, landing onto the topic that Steve has been adamantly rejecting and shooting down every time it gets brought up.

 

“There’s a cute little two bedroom by the taffy shop on 23rd,” he started.

 

“Bucky…” his tone held a warning in it; he already despised bringing this up even when they were in the safe confines of his house, but outside? Where anyone could hear?

 

“Got a little kitchen, a dinin’ table, oh—even a workin’ radiator!”

 

“Buck,” his tone definitely held meaning now, and even if Bucky didn't notice, he could surely tell what he meant when he met Steves eyes. Bucky looked right back at him, though, and continued talking.

 

“It's real nice, Stevie. It would wor—” Bucky was abruptly cut off when they had arrived at their destination and Steve roughly grabbed him by the collar of his work uniform he had yet to take off and shoved him inside his house.

 

“I love it when you manhandle me, Stevi-” the joking mirth in his tone and the smiling crinkles around his eyes abruptly diminished when he saw the look on Steve’s face. 

 

“What did I say on this—what did _we_ agree about this?” Steve looks up at Bucky with an incredulous look on his face; disbelief and anger already crowded on the surface of his emotions. He was so done talking about this: what more was there to discuss? Just as close to his other emotions lies an extreme sadness and yearning, a sort of impossible hope beyond hopes that they could have this someday. But today wasn’t that day, and all talking this did was make him sad and longing that they could have it. And frustrated: oh so frustrated that Bucky didn’t know how truly afraid he was of any slight implication of a “them.” He’d seen the aftermath, what sort of hatred and evil people are capable of. He would just about die if anything like that happened to Bucky; the mere thought brought inescapable tears to his eyes.

 

He finally releases Bucky's collar and goes to sit down on the couch near the entrance of the small home, holding his head in his hands, as if that’d help him gather his thoughts.

 

“Buck, I-”

 

“Why? Why does it have to be like this? It doesn't have to be this way!” their conversation was quickly escalating into a fight, and both of them could sense it; Bucky could feel himself growing angrier.

 

It would always happen like this; Bucky would reject their reality and act as if they could have a normal future together. 

 

Steve shot up from the couch, “Of course it does! You think we could just waltz up to th’ landlord and ask to see an apartment? For us?” he gestured between them crudely.

 

“Why the hell not!” 

 

“Two blokes livin’ in an apartment—we’re a little old to be playing house, Buck.”

 

Bucky groaned and shook his head, voice filled with emotion, “Is it really so wrong to want t’ share an apartment with my best guy?!”

 

“You know how fast rumors spread! People will talk!” Steve sighed exasperatedly. He threw his hands up looking and feeling utterly helpless to the situation. He felt his emotional wall start to crumble, leaving behind something scared and vulnerable.

 

“Let ‘em talk!” Bucky yelled back indignantly, “I’d yell it from the damn rooftops if I could! And you know I would too, Stevie, I’d-”

 

A strangled noise left Steves throat. He thought they had already discussed this; realized how this wasn't a possibility for them. He had suddenly lost all resolve, and white-hot anger seeped from every word he screamed, “But this isn't just about you and your stubborn pride anymore!” 

 

Bucky’s head shot up to look at Steve, to question his audacity. He turned to speak, with daggers lined across his tongue ready to retaliate when he heard a strangled sob leave Steve. His face fell as he watched Steve dissolve into sobs. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he hastily tried to wash them off his face with a swipe of his shirt’s sleeve. Bucky's heart seemed to break as he realized that their whole, stupid fight, Steve had been willing back tears. 

 

The situation was touchy: that much was obvious. Usually, though, whenever the topic gets brought up, anger is poured out instead of tears, and maybe that's only because is easier to get mad about it then to be raw and cry: to show how truly frightened they both are, under all of their false nonchalance. Bucky realizes that he much rather prefers yelling. But now Steves here, struggling to keep himself upright as he breaks down in front of him, with Bucky feeling helpless to help him. 

 

He hesitantly moves forward, as though approaching a wounded animal. He's unsure if Steve would even be receptive to any attempts of affection. He gently lays a hand on his shoulder. Steve looks up at him through a tear-clouded vision and with a slight nod of his head, tells Bucky it's okay. It's not his fault, after all, that they're stuck in such an impossible situation. They shouldn't be fighting each other: it should be them against the world, not against each other. 

 

As soon as he gets the green light from Steve, his arms come cascading around him, swallowing his small form in an envelope of warmth and comfort. Steve’s face comes to rest snugly in Bucky's shoulder as he brings his arms around Bucky. His tears don't immediately subside, but he starts to calm down the moment Bucky holds him.  

 

When he eventually has calmed enough to speak, his voice is scratchy from crying and muffled by the harsh fabric of Bucky's work uniform, “You’ve seen what they do to guys like us, Buck.”

 

The words are definite and heavy; they hang around them and tense the air with the weight of a mutual, unspoken secret.

 

Bucky rests his head atop Steves and sighes, his eyes downcast with sorrow; a knowing sorrow that fuels midnight tears when the crashing realisation that he can never have a normal life with Steve drowns his thoughts.

 

“I know,” is all he replies with, because he does know. He knows, he knows, he knows. But is it really such a bad thing that he dreams? Perhap Steve is more of a realist, but sometimes a dreamer’s dream comes true.

 

“You know i'd want nothing more than to move in with you, Buck. To be able to come home to you every night and build a life with you. T’ have a place where we don’t have t’ worry ‘bout nobody: just you an’ me,” he pulled out of their embrace a bit to look Bucky in the eyes, a familiar softness surrounding his red rimmed, blue eyes.

 

Bucky smiled down at him and quickly leaned down to tenderly press his lips against Steves in the most gentle and reassuring of ways. 

 

And Steve let him: he welcomed the familiarity and intimacy. It was only so often that they were able to be themselves together, and even rarer to have the option to comfort in such an obvious way.

 

“There's nothin’ i’d want more in the world.”

 

And though nearly a century would pass before their dream would become a reality, they continued to hold together through the toughest question of their bond-a test of friendship and relationship alike- until the day would come where they didn’t have to worry about how their actions might be interpreted for fear of being persecuted: a day where fear didn’t have a ruling over their lives. 


End file.
